Barefoot in the Sun (Barefoot Bay)(6)

His eyes were open now, though, and slicing right through her. “How is the baby?”

For a minute she couldn’t imagine what he was talking about. That was the thing about Oliver. He made Zoe forget her train of thought, her vows of secrecy, her common sense. He made her dream of things that couldn’t be and remember things she was better off forgetting.

Things that were so, so good. Like the time they’d done it on the kitchen floor of his apartment. And the time he’d—

“I assume mother and child are thriving?”

Oh, that baby. The one he’d delivered last night. “He’s perfect. Just, yeah. You left quickly and Lacey wanted to thank you.”

“Is that why you’re here?” A shadow of disappointment darkened his eyes, gone almost before she could grab hold of it.

Or you could grab that excuse instead and run with it, Zoe. Run fast and far.

Damn it, why did the only person who knew her secret have to be a doctor committed to saving lives, making it utterly impossible for her to run, hide, and pretend everything was fine?

Because everything wasn’t fine, and he was the answer to the problem that kept her awake and in a low-grade panic more nights than not.

“Is it?” he asked again. “Are you the new family’s thank-you committee of one?”

He was trying to be civil, even kind, and that gave her a little hope. Maybe their history was enough to get what she came for. Maybe she didn’t have to make deals with the devil—although she would have. Right now, she’d do anything.

“It was no big deal,” he said after a few too many seconds had passed. “I’ve done a few emergency deliveries in my career.” Then he took a step closer, dipping his head almost imperceptibly, searching her face. “Zoe?”

“Oliver, you are one of two people in the world who knows the truth about me.”

It was his turn to blink, silent.

“And once you said you’d do anything for me.”

He still didn’t respond.

“Do you remember saying that, Oliver?”

“Of course.” He crossed his arms in a classic power stance. “What are you asking me, Zoe?”

She took a slow, steadying breath. “My great-aunt, Pasha, is sick. Really, really sick. You know that she…she can’t exactly sally forth through the health-care system because she…” Is a kidnapper. “Can’t.”

He stared at her.

“I need you to treat her. And never report it.”

His eyes narrowed as her demand sank in. “You’re asking me to—”

“Do something illegal, yes. I know you are a big, important, successful doctor who shouldn’t take risks that would possibly hurt your booming business, but I don’t care, Oliver, because—”

“Stop.” He was in front of her in one step, one hand on her shoulder, searing her bare skin, already too close.

“Will you?” she asked.

He was near enough for her to feel his warmth and the scent of air and woods, reminding her of the last time they’d kissed.

Go ahead, kiss him.

He dipped his head a tiny bit, not more than a millimeter closer, as if the voice in her head was loud enough for him to hear. “How could I do that?”

“Quietly,” she said quickly. “Discreetly. Under the table, off the books, and away from the prying eyes of your witchy staff.” She raised her chin, hating that he could feel her tremble. Let him think that quiver was because she wanted his help and not because every cell in her was screaming kiss, kiss, kiss.

Man, this might have been a bad idea. But she powered on. “That’s how you could do it,” she finished. “And you will. Because you…” Loved me once. “Always do what’s right.”

“I can’t—”

“You will.”

“Be this close to you and not—”

“I think you have a wife for that kind of thing,” she said, wrangling out of his grip. “I need a doctor, and you happen to be in the area, in the right kind of practice, and conveniently the only medical professional who will agree to treat my aunt without reporting her to the authorities.”

He searched her face, his expression impossible to read. But that didn’t stop her from trying. And staring.

“That could jeopardize my practice,” he finally said.

“How about jeopardizing her life? Doesn’t that mean anything to you anymore? You used to care about people who were dying, Oliver.”

He flinched so slightly she almost missed it. “I still do.”

“Then help me!” She pushed his chest, fueled by frustration. He snagged her wrist and held it immobile.

“I’ll do what I can,” he said.

“What does that mean?” She shook off his fingers and he stepped back, sliding his hands into his trouser pockets as if to shackle himself.

His gaze dropped over her, as hot as his hands would be and sending just as many chills over her skin. “It means I’ll do what I can within certain parameters.”

“Certain parameters? So much for the Hippocratic oath.”

He let his eyes go lower, lingering on her chest, amber turning to ebony as he watched it rise and fall.

“Not to mention your marriage vows.”

He merely shook his head. “Those are broken.”

“Well, goodie for you, hot stuff. But I need a doctor, not a quickie.”

Ever so slightly, one brow lifted. “It was never quick with us, Zoe.”

She narrowed her eyes. “You are married.”

“I’m divorced. It was final last week.”

“You were with her at the grand opening last night.”

He shrugged. “Only as a favor. She’d been invited by some local socialite who backed out at the last minute and she didn’t want to go alone.”

Oh. Oh. “But I just saw her outside.”

“She dropped…” He inched back, casting his eyes down for a second. “Something off.”

A strange white heat rolled over her, along with the distinct and terrifying knowledge that the game had just changed. Oliver wasn’t married. Which meant she could—no, she wouldn’t. Never. Never, never, never.

Except…what exactly was Pasha’s life worth to Zoe? Everything. Anything. Even that.

She bit her lip and took a step closer. “I need help, Oliver. And I can’t get it anywhere else. I will do whatever you want.”

“What are you suggesting, Zoe?”

“You want me to spell it out? Three simple letters, then: s-e—”

He stopped her with a raised hand, taking a deep, slow breath and a long, hungry gaze over her body again. Every hair on the back of her neck stood up, electrified. As he looked at her breasts, her nipples popped against the thin material. As he stared at her hips, she grew warm and achy right between her legs.

When he got to her knees, those bad boys would forget their job completely and she’d be on the floor, like that night in the kitchen. But he never made it down that far.

“No.” He walked around his desk and sat in his oversized chair. “Why don’t you start by telling me what’s wrong with her.”

Holy hell. She’d offered herself as a human sacrifice and the son of a bitch turned her down.





Chapter Two

The rejection stung. Oliver could tell by the drop in Zoe’s shoulders, the way her mouth fought not to open in surprise, and, of course, by the flinch of pain that turned her emerald eyes more of a flat jade green.

Still pretty—God, she was f*cking gorgeous—but when he turned down her offer, the light went out of her face.

He’d hurt her. Fine. They were possibly on the road to even, then. Maybe when she was sitting on the empty floor of a deserted house crying like a damn three-year-old, maybe then they’d be approaching even.

“What are her symptoms, Zoe?” he asked, taking out a notepad to keep his itchy hands busy. Just so he didn’t even think about how much he’d rather lean forward and thread his fingers through that mess of caramel-colored curls, all whimsical silk and sass that somehow never changed.

Corralling her cool, she dropped to the edge of a guest chair, pointing at the paper. “No notes. This is private. Off the record, completely. You may not make a file for her.”

He angled his head. “You may believe the worst in me, but I honor patient confidentiality. Tell me what’s the problem.”

“So she can be your patient?”

“Tell me the problem.”

On a soft sigh, she settled into the chair and tucked her legs under her, making the flowy skirt float over her legs and hide her feet like a lotus flower.

“First of all, I don’t believe the worst in you, okay? We ended badly, I know, but—”